What Is It That Burns Fire?

This is a blog. You caught me.

   Life is grand, make no mistake. I'm graduating, getting a job, enjoying a new relationship, helping my sick family get better, writing a novel, starting a business, and reading Thomas Pynchon, but I still catch myself sneaking wary glances at the moon, bright through the window through the tree through the clouds. I have this remaining, persisting fear there is this terrible insanity somewhere. It is a menace, and it is conscious in and of itself. It sneaked into my writing last night, a viciously bold move, and I didn't even catch it until this morning. There lies some insidious madness out there, dormant for who knows why, that seems content to lurk there, waiting to devour all knowledge, all certainty, all justice. Against even those of us prepared to accept irrationality, impossibility, absurdity, somehow it remains insane. The psychotic unknown, the scratches on the moon, the glowing set of eyes in the dark shrubbery, the infinite extra step beyond concession to madness, but an endless recursion, death so terrifying it begets life and leaves to lurk again. I believe there is this invidious power, not a higher power but a lower power, perhaps we create it, that serenely disdains to annihilate us yet is content to bite firmly onto our unbalanced reality and chew. I am prepared to accept there are concepts at active work beyond our understanding, and this is actually a tremendous courage of mine, but these are concepts we will grasp in time. What terrifies me is the madness to all of those, the certain uncertainty, the chaos within the chaos, the God of Gods, the Devil of Devils, the Mephisto, the Chthulu, the Alucard. I feel far to sensitive to it, too cognizant, too deeply under its suspician, too resilient. I fear it will take everything away from me, all my knowledge, my notebooks schorching away in a flame that looks like laughter. I fear second-guessing what thoughts whirr through the moon when I kiss a beautiful girl and tell her not to worry. I wholly dread this entity, and I see evidence in its being by the fact that I see no way to repel it. It will undoubtedly consume me, eventually, and I have no compulsion to confront it prematurely, yet I feel the impulse to resist it, to hope that my sum willpower is not some crumb in the cosmos but a still reliable weapon. But nothing can be certain.